


Who You Really Are Does Matter

by badwolfofbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Let's be honest, Love Confession, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, anything is better than that episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfofbakerstreet/pseuds/badwolfofbakerstreet
Summary: John has a confession, it's time to be who he really is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because fuck "Who you really are doesn't matter"
> 
> sorry for any grammatical errors, this was written in a frenzy! (a frenzy of EMOOTION)

Unfathomable. This was the only way to describe the insurmountable spark of pain that erupted at the center of John Watson as he listened to Sherlock struggle to tell Molly Hooper that he loved her. Of course it was difficult because they’d been cast into a game designed by a psychopath unlike any they’d met before, who just so happened to be Sherlock’s own sister; but it was also difficult to hear him utter those three words to someone else.

He’d imagined that he would hear those words from those lips in a more private setting, perhaps across candle light at Angelo’s, or over a cup of tea at Baker Street. He’d thought they would be said to him, and only him. Not to Molly Hooper, and certainly not to prevent her death.

The jealousy settled in and soon after, so did the guilt. He should not have felt such emotions in such a rigorous time, he needed to keep it together, to soldier on, for Sherlock, for Mycroft, and for himself. For Rosie, his daughter, she was counting on him to survive. She couldn’t grow up an orphan.

He watched Sherlock destroy the coffin, and knew it wasn’t because he’d discovered his feelings for Molly, or anything so material as that. He’d just ruined Molly’s life by getting her to confess her love to him, and that was something he could never take back. Even if they got out of there, even if they told her that it was because her life was in danger, or so they thought. There would always be that small whisper of I love you lingering in the air when she was near. Her broken words, her shattered heart. They could never repair that.

If John got what he truly wanted from Sherlock after all this was over, Molly would surely never come round again.

Still they carried on, and John thought it was all over the moment Euros told him he’d have to kill one of them; though they shared much over the years, there was still a small fraction of doubt inside of John. He didn’t think he mattered to Sherlock, not as much as Mycroft. His level of intellect could never compare to that of the elder Holmes, even though he knew Sherlock thought of him as superhuman, even though he knew how much he meant to the detective, though his deduction skills were not nearly as refined. Mycroft was still family.

Mycroft seemed to know, however, that he couldn’t compete with John Watson, and as he watched his best friend aim a gun at his own brother’s chest to save his life, he didn’t think he would make it. He truly thought he would have a heart attack, he must have been borderline tachycardic.

His heart broke and reformed itself, only to break again; and then he ended up in the bottom of a well.

To say the solution to their final problem was too simple, would have been a vast understatement, all it took was a hug from Sherlock, and Euros gave away the location of the well he was in, and he was saved. Of course, he was thankful for that, but it sounded more like one of Sherlock’s drug fueled fantasies more than it felt like real life.

However it was real, it happened, and they had to continue on with their lives. They had to be who the world expected them to be, they had to be the consulting detective and the blogger, they had to help the helpless.

There was more that they had to be, though, they had to become the men they were meant to be. He had to learn how to be himself, his true self, Mary’s message be damned. Who they really were, did in fact matter, and he couldn’t hide from his own truth any longer.

He’d had doubts in his relationship with Mary from the moment a disguised Sherlock came back into his life, and he should have listened to that gut instinct that told him to run. It told him to go to Baker Street and never look back; yet he ignored it, because he’d gotten himself engaged and made vows, and it was a mess from the start.

Though as he sat across from Sherlock, Rosie asleep in her pack’n’play upstairs in his old room, a cup of hot steaming tea sat on the table beside him, his shoes were in the corner, kicked off when he’d gotten more comfortable, as were Sherlock’s. Their feet were so close to one another’s, and he was reminded of his stag night, the two of them so casual and open, careless in a drunken stupor. He longed to be back in that simpler time, but longing was pointless, and did nothing but stave the inevitable.

He had hope, for once in his long history with Sherlock, that something wonderful was on the horizon. They just had to get there, and that would be the hardest part.

John wasn’t reading the book in his hand so much as looking at the same line, reading it over and over again, trying to build up courage to have the conversation he so desperately needed to have.

“Something’s on your mind,” Sherlock said, breaking John’s lack of concentration and he looked up, his brows raised in mock-confusion, “Oh please, you’ve been on that page for twenty minutes, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how your eyes haven’t moved down it at all. You’re so distracted you can’t read that boring crime novel, or you would have known the maid is the culprit by now, so put it aside and talk to me.”

John sighed, another book ruined by Sherlock’s premature deductions, and he can’t say he’s sorry; it was a rather boring novel. He’d had it for weeks and was only a hundred pages in. He closed it and set it on the table, pretending to be annoyed at this revelation and leaned forward, Sherlock mimicked him, his elvows on his knees, his hands beneath his chin in genuine interest. John clenched his fist against the seat of the chair and looked away for a moment, smiling. His heartrate sped up and he swallowed the dryness in his throat.

When he looked sideways at Sherlock, he saw the man tilting his head, no doubt trying to deduce what he was about to say, but John knew he wouldn’t see this coming, he couldn’t possibly. He had no idea of John’s feelings for him, he couldn’t have, or he would have been acting different toward him. Sherlock’s poor self-esteem no doubt had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him, and for once, though he hated it, John was a little bit thankful.

“Alright, Sherlock, uh, mate...” He winced slightly at his use of the friendly term, it wasn’t the first time the word felt foreign on his tongue, “I’ve been thinking, and it’s time for me to move out of that flat I had with Mary.”

“I agree.” Sherlock’s response was quick and easy, John blanched a moment, nearly losing his train of thought.

“Yeah?”

“Of course, too many memories, it’s understandable that you should feel the need to relocate. I’ve done some research and there are quite a few suitable locations in your budget and much closer to here-”

“No, what?” John laughed, cutting off Sherlock mid-sentence, “I don’t, uh, what I mean to say is, I don’t want to find a new flat.”

“Well then where do you propose you go?” They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment while John took in the hilarity of the situation. He loved it when Sherlock didn’t quite grasp the simplest of things. It made him feel more human.

“I was thinking I could move back in, here,” John said, Sherlock didn’t reply, so John felt compelled to continue, “I mean it worked after Mary shot you, those months that I stayed here, helping you get back to normal health, it was nice, yeah? Like old times. I just thought, perhaps, that we could have at it again.”

“Of course, John. I’d love nothing more than to have you back here, but, the space, there’s not much, and where would Rosie sleep?”

“My old room, she seems to like it up there. We could bring her crib so she doesn’t have to keep sleeping in that portable death trap-”

“What about you? Sharing a room with your child wouldn’t be unheard of, but it would certainly be unfavorable as she gets older.”

“No, I wouldn’t be in the same room as her.” John let himself smile a little, he could see the cogs in Sherlock’s brain working, but it wasn’t clicking, not yet, he’d have to spell it out for him.

“The couch would wreak havoc on your back after a long time. I’m sure we could invest in a pull-out, but even then, it would be horrible for-”

“No, not the couch either.”

“Well then where? 221C?”

“No, I was quite thinking, your room.”

“My room? But I do sleep on occasion, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to share with-” He stopped talking, the pieces finally falling into place.

“You should probably re-evaluate what you think it is that I want.”

“So in fact-” John stared as deja-vu settling in, John thought back to when he asked Sherlock to be his best man, “Y-you mean-”

“Yes-” John waited a moment as Sherlock shut his eyes and swallowed thickly, he opened his mouth to respond, and he thought they’d be saying the same thing, so he spoke as well, “I love you.”

“You mean to evict me?” Sherlock opened his eyes, “What?”

“What?” John echoed and they stared at one another in silence, “No, of course not, I don’t want to kick you out, I want to live here, with you.”

“With me?”

“Yes, with you.” There was another silence, John wouldn’t let the panic settle in, perhaps he’d miscalculated.

“Oh, with me.” He said nothing more and the silence hung between them again, John couldn’t leave it here, he had to say something more, he moved forward, out of his chair, and reached out, his hand falling on Sherlock’s knee, the same way it did on his stag night, only this time it wasn’t to keep himself from falling, it was to ground himself in the moment, to capture Sherlock’s attention and hold it. It was a move, he was making a move.

“With you, Sherlock, that’s the only thing I want to be. I think it’s important that I share this now, it’ll probably be the most important thing I’ve ever done, ever said. You, are everything.” He’d shut his eyes and turned his head in typical Sherlock avoidance fashion, but John was ready, he’d already unclenched his fist and placed his open hand beneath the chin of the man in front of him and turned it back to face him, “I know it might be difficult for you to understand, or to grasp what I’m telling you, but I’m going to need you to try. I’ve loved you, Sherlock, for so long, I can’t really remember a time when I didn’t. You have saved me so many times, in so many ways, though that’s not why I love you, that’s why I need you to know that I love you. I want nothing more than to see you every day, to fall asleep with you beside me, to wake up with you, to raise Rosie with you. She loves you as well, you know.

“I think that Mary knew how I felt, she must have, there is not other explanation for her post mortem messages, and she was pushing us together so that we may have a future together. She wanted us to be who we were meant to be, because we were meant to be who we are together.” He released Sherlock’s chin and began to move away, Sherlock’s eyes squeezed tighter and John cleared his throat, getting to his feet, “Alright, I’ve said my peace. Y-you can think on that, I suppose, for a bit. Go into your mind palace, or what have you.”

“John-” Sherlock reached out and grasped his wrist, pulling him back to where he was before, his eyes opened, they were wet with unshed tears, John didn’t think twice about reaching out to wipe one away when it escaped down his cheek. Sherlock leaned into his touch, his cheek filled John’s hand in way that felt utterly perfect, John sucked in a small breath, baring his teeth slightly in an attempt to suppress the urge to lean in and capture the moment in a kiss, he couldn’t stop himself moving a small fraction of an inch forward. Sherlock’s all-seeing eyes caught this and he did the unexpected. He smiled, “You don’t have to stop yourself.”

“I don’t?”

“You wouldn’t have confessed this if you didn’t believe, even if it’s just a small fraction of hope, that I return your feelings.” Sherlock’s own hand covered John’s where it was still placed on his cheek, his smug half smile made John feel slightly weak, “Which I do.”

“You do-”

“Of course I do, you’ve repeated half the words that I’ve said about you back to me just now in your speech, and you can’t believe that I love you as well?” Sherlock’s voice held a hint of humor that John didn’t miss, but he couldn’t find it in himself to laugh, his heart raced, his palm was probably sweating against Sherlock’s cheek, but he couldn’t move.

“You love me.” It wasn’t a question, but an echo of the statement Sherlock just made, the declaration that was hidden by a tone of disbelief.

“Of course, I love you.” His voice was softer than John had ever heard it, even when they were in that horrible place and he had to say it to Molly. There was no one telling him to say it softer, it was all him, and it was the most sincere he’d ever heard him.

“I love you.” John repeated, a smile forming on his face that Sherlock was matching, the detective brought up his own hand to rest against John’s cheek, his thumb worried over the skin there, John leaned in, feeling so happy his chest could burst.

“I love you, John Watson.” His deep rumble of a voice surged through John’s chest and sunk down into his stomach, quelling the fear that had been bubbling to the surface.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson was in their doorway, holding Rosie, bouncing her up and down. The Baker Street Boys turned, slightly embarassed by their current situation, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to mind, she’d always thought they were together anyway, “Didn’t you hear her crying? Oh probably not, you were so focused on each other. Well, kiss him already, don’t mind me.” She turned and headed down to her own flat with the baby and John turned back to Sherlock who was already beginning to laugh.

“Oh, Hudders,” Sherlock said fondly, John ran his thumb along the sharp cheekbone beneath it and it brought Sherlock back into the moment as John moved closer to his friend, first resting their foreheads against one another’s in a moment of thought, though neither really needed to think anything through. It was more a moment of reflection, a moment of wonder, John leaned back for a moment, his eyes wide and no doubt glossed with tears, they were of course joyous, still Sherlock wiped them away, both of his hands encased John’s face and he pulled him closer.

The fire crackled behind them as they came together, their lips fit perfectly, and they were finally able to be who they really were in 221B Baker Street.


End file.
